


Smile, Darling

by coatofflowers



Series: Like a Two-Tailed Cat [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorian is a dramatic little shit, Fluff, Lavellan is a cheeky little shit, M/M, Post-Trespasser, The Lucerni, nothing of substance at all lol, this is certified grade-A fluf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 03:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7024816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coatofflowers/pseuds/coatofflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laelion does something meant to be cute and temporary. It ends up cute and not-so-temporary. Somewhere in Tevinter, Maevaris is making fun of Dorian with a vigor never before seen by the likes of mortals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smile, Darling

The morning started with a meeting with Maevaris, over lavender tea.

They gathered at one of Dorian’s favorite local cafes. It was a particularly cool morning for central Minrathous, and the streets were as bare as they would ever be, with only the silent cloaked commoners or the occasional strolling noble to give life to the city. He and Maevaris were two of very few patrons currently at the cafe, which Dorian preferred, as he was always uncomfortable discussing Lucerni business with an audience, despite Maevaris’s constant reassurances that nobody was going to assassinate them simply for discussing politics. Dorian didn't like to think of himself as a  _paranoid_ man, but ever since returning to Tevinter after the Inquisition disbanded, he found that he preferred to be cautious more often than not.

He spared a glance up from stirring the tea he’d ordered. Maevaris was fixing him with a rather odd stare, her blue eyes alight, a small smile—or more of a smirk—tugging at her mouth. Dorian raised his eyebrows and patiently waited several moments for her to say something, then sighed and said, “Something striking your fancy, my friend?”

Maevaris’s smile broke free. She shook her head slightly. “Not at all, dear.”

It was an obvious lie, but Maevaris’s face—a credit to her occupation as a Magister, no doubt—revealed nothing further. Well, that was alright. She had always been a firebrand, a marvel of ambition and craftiness cloaked in a ring of flames. It was part of the reason why Dorian liked her so and had been eager to ally himself with her cause. Of course, even their longstanding friendship couldn’t protect either of them from the other’s little _oddities_ , such as the woman's near-constant tendency to apparently have something  _up her sleeve_ that Dorian couldn't quite place.

With a heavy sigh, Dorian made the conscious decision to ignore whatever little joke Maevaris was having with herself, and press on with the matter at hand. “Well.” He paused to take a sip of his tea. “If you don’t mind, I believe we have some things to discuss. You read the documents I left for you, I’d imagine? Those transcripts from the Magisterium library?”

Maevaris nodded.

“Good. I think we should begin by reviewing what we know now, and go from there.”

Dorian had actually reviewed the documents in question with Laelion the past night, despite the elf’s protests that he wouldn’t understand any of the shit being talked about. Which, to the elf’s credit, was not entirely true—he’d caught on to the inner workings of Tevene politics and history surprisingly well since he started visiting the country. And anyway, Dorian had always felt oddly uncomfortable _not_ sharing whatever new development or piece of information was tossed his way with Laelion. Perhaps it was because he’d been so spoiled in the Inquisition, to have his _amatus_ just a short walk away whenever he desired his input or his company. It was difficult to adjust to Laelion being absent more often than present, even with the letters and the gifts and the sending crystal conversations. At the very least he was keeping himself busy; had he nothing else to do, he was sure he'd sit around and miss Laelion every day.

His conversation with Maevaris was about twenty minutes down the line when she suddenly got that odd smile on her face again. She took a sip of her tea, then held up a finger to halt Dorian mid-sentence.

“Tell me, dear,” she drawled, “how are things faring between yourself and the Inquisitor? Still getting along, I hope?”

At that, Dorian blinked. Maevaris had only ever asked him about Laelion twice—once to learn if Dorian really did have a southern elven lover like the rumors said, and again to ask if Dorian was intending on bringing said elven lover home to Tevinter. The relationship between him and Mae wasn’t strictly professional by any means, but as of late the two had been so overloaded with organizing Lucerni efforts that they hadn’t had much time for any non-work-related chatter.

Plus, there was the matter of that decidedly devilish smile on her face. Dorian elected to humor her, mixing his now-lukewarm tea with a tired sigh. “To begin, he’s not the Inquisitor anymore. As I know you’re aware.” He glanced up from his dish to meet her gaze—the lady Magister was still regarding him with that knowing, amused expression. Creasing his brow, Dorian cleared his throat and continued, “Lavellan and I are doing splendidly, thank you. But surely we have more pressing matters to discuss.”

“Ah. Of course.” She set her tea down delicately. “I only want to know that he is making you _happy_.”

“Right.” Dorian wrinkled his nose. Was this some sort of elaborate social prank that Maevaris had constructed? Had he done anything recently to warrant her seeking some kind of vengeance on him? Sure, there was that time with the Grand Archivist when he’d cut her off in the middle of her explaining something, but that was _months_ ago, and she had specifically told him she didn't mind. Was he missing her birthday? “Yes, I’m very happy, and so is he. Can we get back to business?”

“Of course. Don’t be so curt, Dorian. I’m only ensuring that I won’t be deprived of seeing your _happy face_ any time soon.” The woman was full-on grinning now.

Dorian swallowed a groan of irritation and, instead, took a moment to think of some creative and particularly colorful insults to describe the exasperating lady which he would try out with Laelion later.

“Maevaris. The documents. The _Lucerni_ , which will be sorely unprepared to face the Magisterium in a few weeks if we don't stop discussing my love life.”

His obvious annoyance served only to make the woman laugh, but after that, she set her tea down and squared her shoulders, which Dorian took as a taciturn sign that they were finally getting back to business. For approximately the next hour the two talked without further distraction or interruption, going over the talking points, identifying potential political allies, discussing how the more junior members of the Lucerni seemed to be faring in broader terms. By the time the sun was nearly overhead Dorian’s eyes were straining, his tea was long since drained, and he had that distinct feeling of accomplishment mixed with mild apprehension that he frequently associated with the Lucerni.

After a short break in their conversation, Maevaris sighed and gave him a goodnatured smile. “Feeling good?”

“As good as I should wisely be feeling.” Dorian stood to take his leave, removing his cape from where he’d slung it over the back of his chair. He paused to glance at her. “Don’t fret about it, my friend. We'll do alright.” Maevaris smiled, reclining in her own seat.

“Remember, the diplomat from Antiva should be in attendance,” she said, watching him prepare to leave. “The one we were warned about. He will need to be impressed. Ensure that the rest of our representatives are prepared to handle his presence. We will need to prevent those fools from saying anything that we will regret. With force, if we must.”

“Yes, Mae, I know.” Dorian rolled a shoulder, wrinkling his nose at the stiffness of his joins. _Getting old rather early, aren't we, Pavus?_

“Hmm.” The woman’s sly smile disappeared momentarily behind her glass; when Dorian saw it again, it was quirked in amusement. “Perhaps you should meet him for tea some time this week. I'm sure he would like very much to see a familiar, _smiling face_ waiting for him in Minrathous, don't you agree, dear?”

 _Of course._ Dorian sighed. “ _Yes_ , Mae.”

* * *

About an hour later, Dorian at last arrived back at his estate in the outer reaches of Minrathous.

He removed his cape at the door and bid a short greeting to a servant passing through the foyer, though he stopped her on a whim before she could exit the room, frowning. "Is Laelion up yet?"

The elven woman bowed her head to him in a gesture of respect. "Master Lavellan was in the study when I saw him last, my lord."

"Thanks, Siobhan." He had half expected him to still be in bed—these days Laelion didn't tend to get up early if he didn't have a reason to, and it was still a few hours to noon. There wasn't much for the elf to do at home by himself besides laze around and sketch anyway. The last time he was in Tevinter for a spell he had mentioned in passing that he would like to learn to paint with oils. Since then Dorian and Maevaris had been subtly probing about for sufficient supplies to help him get started with the new craft, and perhaps a tutor—one that would work with Laelion rather than shut him down, of course. If all went as intended it would be a pleasant and entirely romantic surprise. Like an unbidden, belated  _thank-you_ for putting up with all this Magisterium nonsense.

Once he had removed his boots, Dorian headed straight for the study. There he found  Laelion leaning against the desk, skimming through what looked to be some of the reports that Dorian had shared with him. He was dressed in brown trousers and a severely oversized green tunic, so comically massive that it hung off the elf's thin frame like vines from the trees of the Emerald Graves. Dorian had gone out and brought that very shirt, and several others like it, when it became clear that Laelion would be spending time in Tevinter fairly regularly. He had chanced to bring the elf, knowing that he was very particular about the fabric of his clothes—anything too itchy or rough would drive him mad, and a collar too high would make him want to crawl out of his skin. Laelion had half-jokingly picked out a few of the largest tunics in the store and was pleasantly surprised to find how comfortable and non-intrusive they were. Plus, the hem came down almost to his knee, which meant he frequently would wear one of the massive shirts without pants when he was lounging around the bedroom—a trend that Dorian very, very much appreciated.

For a moment Dorian reveled in the peculiarity of the sight before him. Here he was, an esteemed and wealthy Magister, in a luxurious estate bestowed upon him by his family. And here in his study was a barefoot Dalish elf with rumpled hair and a stump for a left arm, whose brown freckled skin stood in stark contrast against the white marble flooring; an elf who, according to his own tales of his childhood, had grown up literally eating  _fried insects_  in the forest _;_  an elf with whom Dorian was ridiculously and disgustingly in love. Yes, it was an objectively unusual sight for Tevinter, but Dorian didn't necessarily see anything  _out of place_ about it. Laelion belonged here, as naturally and wholesomely as he himself did. And If the Lucerni had its way, someday, all of Tevinter would agree.

Laelion, having heard the man's approach, started to smile at the report he was reading in lieu of looking up. “Well, you're not in little pieces in a bag on the front step, so I take it your meeting with Mae went alright this morning?"

Dorian scoffed, folding his arms over his chest. “You have a rather morbid imagination, dear.”

“Well.” The elf glanced up over the edge of his papers at Dorian, his smile small and crooked but warm. “You know what they say. Leave an elf alone and—”

He cut himself off abruptly, a look of surprise flitting over his face before he broke into a huge, toothy grin, lowering his papers onto the desk beside him. Dorian stared at him.

“. . . And?”

“Um. Fuck.” Laelion giggled nervously, then added, “Shit.”

Dorian blinked. Then blinked again. "For Andraste's sake, _amatus_. What did you do now?"

The elf was staring at him, still grinning widely, his hands fidgeting in what could either have been excitement or uneasiness. "You, uh, didn't—you didn't wash your face."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Um." Laelion continued to fidget for a moment, then gestured vaguely at the wall behind Dorian. Now transcending  _confusion_ and beginning to experience  _complete and utter bewilderment_ , Dorian turned, frowning until his eyes caught his own reflection in the elegantly-crafted mirror hanging there before him. After a moment of looking blankly at himself Dorian noticed something . . .  _strange_ on his the right side of his face, just below the corner of his eye. He took a step closer, turning his head slightly to the side to see more clearly . . .

Huh. Well. It seemed that _somebody_ had turned his mole into the left eye of a rather crudely drawn smiling face. With ink, no less. Dorian blinked at it, twice. Then he turned to face the elf standing and watching from beside the desk.

“Did . . . did you draw on my face?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

“ _Laelion Lavellan_.”

Laelion pursed his lips as if to hide a smile. Failing that, he tried to frown instead. Then he laughed. Then, he blinked. “Wait, did I say ‘yes’ just then? Shit. I meant to say ‘no’. No, no, it was Alessia,” Laelion added hastily when Dorian shot him a positively withering look. “I taught her how to hold a quill. In her little . . . cat claws.”

Dorian rather angrily ignored the objectively adorable mental image of their cat sitting on a stack of thick tomes and penning a letter to one of her cat-colleagues. Instead he looked back at his reflection at the mirror, pulling at the skin of his cheek, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “I’m absolutely—when did you even do this?”

A lopsided grin that was _not nearly sheepish enough for Dorian’s liking thank you_ crawled across Laelion’s face. “Uh, this morning, before you woke up.”

Dorian balked. “What—you were _asleep_ when I got up this morning!”

“Yeah, but, early this morning—like, before the sun came up, I mean, I woke up from this weird dream and it made me nervous and I couldn’t get back to sleep, so . . . ” Laelion shifted his weight from foot to foot, wringing his hands, although Dorian could tell by his little smile that he was still so damn _amused_ by this whole situation. “To be honest I—I sort of thought that you looked in a mirror more often, so I assumed you’d catch it before you left, or . . . that it’d get smudged off, or something—”

Dorian’s eyes closed briefly in annoyance. “I didn’t have time to look in the mirror this morning,” he moaned. And he hadn’t—an irresponsibly late conversation with his _amatus_ last night had caused him to nearly oversleep, and he had gotten up to meet Maevaris in such a hurry that he hadn’t even checked his reflection.  “So instead of waking me up, like _any other_ boyfriend would reasonably be expected to do, you assuaged your anxiety by doodling on me. Is that it? Am I just another sketchbook to you?”

“Sorry.” Laelion looked up at him through his lashes. “Did I destroy the Lucerni? Is Tevinter doomed now?”

“You very well may have!” Dorian grabbed the nearest paper on the desk and threw it at him. It tumbled lamely to the floor. Laelion didn’t even have to budge. “You do understand that I am involved with some  _extraordinarily_ important people, and that I could, quite literally, encounter someone upon whom I need to make a stunning first impression at any given moment? Elven ambassadors seeking to make allies in the Magisterium? Elder Magisters with _decades_ of established political clout to hold over both mine _and_ Maevaris’s heads and a particular _itching_ to find an excuse to do so? There's even a dignitary from Antiva in Tevinter for the next few weeks, with whom I may need to _personally_ rub elbows, whom I could have run into by chance today! From _Antiva_ , Laelion!”

That appeared to give Laelion pause. He thought about what Dorian had said for several moments. “Well,” he said after a while, “you always said Antiva’s kind of a shithole anyway, right? So, if he had seen you, it probably wouldn't have even been the weirdest thing he's seen, like, today.”

Dorian was about half a second away from a full-on primal screech of rage when his strained mind put another two and two together. “Oh, _kaffas_ ," he breathed, "Maevaris saw this and said nothing. She was willing to let me go the _entire day_ with this stupid thing on my face, and possibly meet important people on behalf of _our_ party, that—that dragon of a woman . . . ”

Laelion snorted. “Why would she do that?”

“Because she secretly hates me, I think. Maker.” Dorian covered his eyes with his palms, remembering all the infernal woman's coy teasing earlier.  _She's never going to stop mocking me for this stupid thing._

“Dorian, I'm willing to bet nobody even  _saw_ it." There was clear amusement in the elf's voice, coming from somewhere beyond Dorian's hands. "I mean, it's small—they'd have to be within a meter of you to even tell what it was."

Dorian exhaled dramatically.

“I didn’t actually—" Laelion paused. "You’re not really upset, are you?”

The mage's pout, expertly crafted and honed to perfection over the years, was the only response he offered.

“Dorian?”

At _that_ tone of voice, Dorian frowned and moved his hands, blinking. By now the elf had a genuinely worried look about him now—his brilliant green gaze met Dorian’s briefly before darting away, and his movements were becoming a bit more erratic, as they always did when he was anxious. Immediately Dorian felt a distant twinge of guilt for his dramatics, and he shook his head, making no effort to curb the smile forming on his face. “Of course not.” Laelion perked up at once, smiling at the floor. “I deserve your horrible teasing, _amatus_ , constantly making you sit at home all day as I do.”

“You’re not _making_ me. You’re _advising_ me, and I’m choosing to follow your advice.”

In response, Dorian threw another piece of paper, this time crumpling it first so that it would actually fly. It bounced harmlessly off of his lover's unsuspecting nose. Laelion flinched in surprise, and, at Dorian's cheeky smile, gave an indignant little huff. "Oh, don't  _throw things at me_. Fine, I'm sorry. I honestly thought you would catch it and go,  _Ha ha, Laelion, he's so cute_ , and then wipe it off. I wasn't trying to sabotage your reform efforts. Promise."

"Oh, I don't know." Without warning Dorian roped an arm around the other's waist and pulled him in. The elf obliged without further prompting. "It would be so fitting, wouldn't it? A young, ambitious, charming Magister like myself, the whole of Tevinter soon to be at his command, only to have his plans thwarted by his conniving elven lover . . . " He pressed a kiss to Laelion's cheek.

" _Conniving_. I do like that." He hummed for a moment before flashing another quick smile at Dorian. "You really didn't look in the mirror once, all day?  _You_?"

Dorian drew an exaggerated pout. "I had to rise  _disgustingly_ early today, _amatus_. And I do have more important things to do than admire myself."

"Like having  _me_  admire you, right? Speaking of which . . . " The elf paused, and Dorian raised his eyebrows, waiting. "You're done for the day, right?"

"I can be," Dorian said.

"So . . . " Laelion's eyes wandered around the room before they found the mage's. "Wanna push all that shit off the desk and have sex?"

" _Pfffft._ " Dorian couldn't contain a graceless snort. _Years_ of being together had come and gone, and still the elf had never come up with a better method of propositioning his lover than looking him in the face and asking, _Wanna fuck_? (Which, to be fair, absolutely worked, always, without fail.) “Well, I was going to write a sternly-worded letter to Mae on said desk, but I suppose . . .”

With a big smile plastered across his face, the elf grabbed him roughly by the arm and pulled him away from the mirror. Dorian laughed, throwing his arms around Laelion's neck and closing in, diminishing the space between them in one quick movement. Laelion's single hand slid over the taller man's hip.

“No doodling on me this time, understand, _amatus_?”

Laelion flashed a grin, all at once teasing and affectionate. “No promises.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed this silly, pointless little piece c:  
> i was sitting around waiting for my hair dye to set in and then my brain was like, "what if lavellan made dorian's mole into a smiley face?". then this happened. now here we are.  
> & also i'm kind of, sort of putting off updating my other fic because i keep wanting to rewrite the new chapter...... ^^'
> 
> & also also i did some reading on maevaris for the first time ever to write this fic and ..... she's such a cool character! why don't i see more fics with her in them? especially pavellan fics! man!
> 
> as always i would LOVE to hear your guys' feedback, comments, advice, etc.! thanks so much for reading!!


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